


To Go Burning Through

by InkStainsOnMyHands



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Absent Parents, Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Human, Angst, Animal Abuse, Animal Death, Arranged Marriage, Blood, Bullying, Child Death, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hell, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Marriage, Medical Inaccuracies, Mentions of Cancer, Paranormal, Sort of happy ending, Speech Disorders, ritual suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 22:34:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19473586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InkStainsOnMyHands/pseuds/InkStainsOnMyHands
Summary: Ezra twists his wedding band around his finger; the metal bites into his skin. “I don’t want to be in pain. I-I don’t want to be unable to eat.” With a dry chuckle, he adds, “And my husband likes my hair.”Mary’s smile falters. Her eyes flicker to his wool-covered wrists. “I’m sure your husband would much rather you live. Don’t you agree?”Ezra grins, as if she’s told a joke.





	To Go Burning Through

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [To Go Burning Through](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19724608) by [Gewi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gewi/pseuds/Gewi)



> Hi, welcome to "Joey Can't _Not_ Write a Horror Fic for their Fandoms" starring me! 
> 
> Heed the tags, people. 
> 
> Also, please note, I'm a dumb American. This should become obvious.

“Mr. Fell?”

Ezra blinks away his daydream. Awakened into the harsh light of reality, he glances to his right. There, a woman leans over the threshold into his oncologist’s office. She has a kind smile that doesn’t quite reach her dark eyes.

“Hello, yes,” Ezra greets her.

The woman pads into the room. The door closes behind her with a soft click. She holds out her hand for Ezra to take; its soft yet cold. “Hello, my name is Mary. I’m one of the counselors here. I was hoping we could speak for a moment while Dr. Bailey is away?” 

It takes some extra effort for Ezra to keep his polite smile plastered onto his face. He releases her hand. “Yes,” Ezra says, voice small. “Of course.”

“Excellent.” Mary flashes her teeth. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Ezra looks down to where Mary is pointing: the plastic chair to his right, currently occupied by his jacket. He fumbles to pull it into his lap. “Oh no, not at all! Pardon me.”

Mary adjusts her black skirt as she sits. “Now, Mr. Fell, Dr. Bailey tells me you’ve elected to forgo additional treatment despite the positive prognosis you received after your surgery. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

Mary nods once. She pulls her lips into her mouth. There is a silence between them for several heartbeats before she asks, “Would you care to explain why?”

Ezra twists his wedding band around his finger; the metal bites into his skin. “I don’t want to be in pain. I-I don’t want to be unable to eat.” With a dry chuckle, he adds, “And my husband likes my hair.”

Mary’s smile falters. Her eyes flicker to his wool-covered wrists. “I’m sure your husband would much rather you live. Don’t you agree?”

Ezra grins, as if she’s told a joke.

* * *

Ezra is a nickname. He never much cared for the name his mother gave him, _Aziraphale_ . Even before his schoolyard bullies teased him for his peculiar designation, _Aziraphale_ had been too much for his small mouth to chew on. 

Ezra, of course, tried his best. As with all children, he had the impulse to please his parents. But too many of his babbling years were marred by concern and frustration. Eventually, the rest of his family surrendered to his speech impediment and mercifully redubbed him “Ezra”. After all, it was the closest approximation to what he could recite of his given name.

Ezra wonders if that was the first crack in his mother’s dreams for her only child.

* * *

When Ezra returns home, he strides in a beeline to the phone in his kitchenette. He has affairs to sort through, and he may as well start the process sooner rather than later.

Ezra dials his mother’s number. He isn’t disappointed when a tired recording of her voice comes on the line; he didn’t expect her to answer. In reality, his call is a courtesy. He doesn’t want her to remember him one day and wonder where he had gone. 

After his mother’s answering machine blares in his ear, he sighs, “Hello, it’s me, it’s - it’s your son. Listen, I have a bit of bad news. Actually, it’s very terrible news. The - uh - surgery didn’t remove all of the cancer. So, it is likely that I will ...die within the next few months. But, you won’t need to trouble yourself with funeral arrangements. My husband will take care of my remains.”

Ezra hangs up without saying goodbye.

* * *

Even in London, where basements were becoming quite fashionable, Ezra was fortunate to find an affordable townhouse with one pre-excavated. It may as well have been a miracle.

Ezra doesn’t turn on the light as he takes hesitant steps down the creaking staircase into an awaiting abyss.

* * *

Sex with his husband is always a treasured experience. Never does Ezra feel more loved, more cherished, more _desired_ than when he is underneath his spouse. Even now, as pallid and thin as he is, his lover’s hunger for him is palpable, and Ezra aches to be devoured.

Intense, toe-curling pleasure makes Ezra forget, for a small while, that he is at death’s door. He begs for _more, more, more, yes, yes yes_ with every rhythmic movement.

Once they’re done, and Ezra’s sweat has cooled on his naked body, he gets up from the concrete floor. He makes his way up the stairs, down the hall, and into his bedroom’s en-suite. In the shower, he washes himself of the dried, cracked blood on his body.

* * *

As Ezra slips into sleep, he wonders what hell will be like.

* * *

Ezra walks into his basement.

* * *

Ezra is grateful he was never able to bring himself to own another pet. Dying would have been far more complicated had he a living creature to worry over.

No, maybe it was better Ezra had his particular irrational paranoia. He feared, for decades, his bullies rising from the grave to destroy another creature he loved. It was silly, but it might have also been a blessing in disguise.

* * *

Ezra still weeps over Crawly sometimes. His beloved corn snake’s absence still aches after forty long years.

Still, Ezra hopes he doesn’t meet Crawly again after he passes. Crawly should be happy, basking eternally under the afternoon sun, in a heaven made just for unusually affectionate serpents.

* * *

Ezra walks into his basement.

* * *

About a month after he called his mother, she appears at Ezra’s door unexpectedly on a Saturday afternoon. Her painted lips don’t smooth into a smile when she sees him. Ezra doesn’t blame her.

Ezra leads her to his small dining table set beside his relatively smaller kitchen.

His mother’s dry, clinical gaze is a heavy weight on Ezra’s chest. Ezra feels such sorrow for her. Meeting with him, he imagines, is akin to visiting a well-worn grave. She has already mourned over him so many times: at eleven when he went away to a mental hospital, at eighteen when he married his husband, and now that his physical shell is dying. There are no more tears for her to shed, Ezra supposes.

Ezra offers to brew them some tea. As the kettle heats above his stove, he occupies himself with searching for a second cup that doesn’t have cracks or chips.

“I came to ask if you’ve taken care of your father’s bookshop?” his mother pipes up, her tone neutral. 

That stings. Ezra grinds the back of his teeth.

Ezra feels the salt-and-pepper curls at the back of his neck start to rise. He takes a deep, calming breath into his lungs. _She didn’t mean anything by it_ , he reminds himself.

Ezra pivots away from his cabinetry to smile at her. “No, I sold _my_ bookshop, liquidated the assets.”

His mother’s eyes and maw widen. She brings a quivering hand to her mouth. “Liquidating - ? And the grimoire?”

“Oh no, I couldn’t sell _that_. We wouldn’t want it to fall into small hands again, now would we?” Ezra jokes as he gesticulates his fingers before her. His mother doesn’t laugh.

The kettle starts to shriek.

* * *

Ezra shuts the door after his mother. The moment she is out of sight, his skin turns to gooseflesh. His curls rise again. Something crawls up his spine.

“No!” Ezra’s command reverberates throughout the front room. “You will not hurt her. She doesn’t mean what she says half of the time, you know that.”

Ezra doesn’t need to turn around to know his husband has gone back down the stairs in a huff.

* * *

Ezra walks into -

* * *

Ezra wakes screaming.

In the same instant, the bed dips beside him. He shivers.

“It was about Crawly again,” he whimpers into the shadows. “I saw - oh God.”

Ezra dissolves into tears before he can say anymore. What else is left to say? He’s already described this particular nightmare a thousand times:

Ezra runs home from school, only to find his friend missing from his terrarium. He’s frantic, searching his entire room in fear that his snake escaped his cage to seek Ezra out after so much time spent apart. Then, after several heart-pounding minutes, he hears the echoes of childish laughter coming from the communal garden behind his house. Even now, in the waking world, his stomach drops.

Ezra still remembers how Crawly’s beautiful charcoal scales were soaked in his own blood. His belly had been slashed open, spilling sinew and gore onto the field. Parts of his spine peaked through the blackened flesh that had been torched away from his back. Crawly’s head could not be found.

Ezra read once that humans have a pain threshold, and they will become unconscious if they meet it. He prays that serpents have that same mechanism. He can’t - he just can’t - stomach the idea of innocent Crawly suffering so much prior to his gruesome death.

Ezra’s husband attempts to soothe him. He reminds Ezra that Gabriel and his trope are gone now, never to hurt him, or anyone else, ever again. His sweet murmurings only makes his stomach churn.

The nightmares of runes carved into adolescent flesh and lifeless, hollow eyes staring into nothingness are much, much worse.

* * *

Ezra walks into his basement. He makes his way before a large black circle bubbling from his wall. Even after forty years of it following him, its putrid, sulfuric smell remains overwhelming.

Ezra avoids direct eye contact with the circle; the last time his care slipped, he stared at it without blinking for days, searching for an end to its unfathomable depths. Instead, his gaze settles on where it spiders out, fading into white paint.

“Everything is ready,” Ezra speaks into it. “I-I’m ready.”

It whispers back.

Ezra nods. He fishes a butcher’s knife from his pocket. With little hesitation, he brings the blade to the scarred skin of his wrist. His flesh gives little resistance to being torn asunder. A small sigh escapes his lips, unbidden; the sight of his bubbling blood is familiar and comforting.

Then, he repeats the process on his other arm.

It takes a minute, but he eventually falls to his knees, exhausted.

Ezra smiles; he wonders what his husband will look like.

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Critiques, kudos and comments are very welcomed! Thanks!


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